


Once Bitten

by Laylah



Category: Last Remnant
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, M/M, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allan hisses, pinning his ears. He has never been able to <i>ask</i> for what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Bitten

"How do you stand it?" Allan asks; it is a poor substitute for a greeting but Torgal expects no better of him. "They stink. They're graceless. They think so much of themselves, it's sickening."

Torgal flicks an ear in annoyance. "What do you want now?" he asks. He has better things to do than listen to Allan's endless litany of complaints.

"I want nothing from you," Allan spits. "Traitor."

"Your scent says otherwise," Torgal points out mildly. The scent of anger and musk followed him into this close little room, drowning out Royotia's dead iron tang. "As does your lack of armor."

Allan hisses, pinning his ears. He has never been able to _ask_ for what he wants.

He makes it plain all the same, waiting, watching, until Torgal sets aside the sword he was cleaning and stands, all hands empty, all arms open and ready. If Allan wanted to win, he would already have attacked, would have pressed his advantage without mercy. He is capable of fighting that well. But only now does he lunge to grapple, eyes dilated in hunting pleasure, lips skinned back from sharp teeth.

Torgal does not try to stop him, has not made that mistake since they were barely more than kits. He catches Allan's advance and rolls backward into a throw, baring his own fangs in fierce delight at the solid thud Allan's body makes against the floor. He launches himself forward, tangles their limbs to keep Allan _down_, and he's growling himself, the sound rumbling up from his chest in answer to Allan's needy, angry sounds. The sharp smoky heat of need and hate fills the air between them, thick on Torgal's tongue at every breath. Allan strains against him, long muscles flexing, claws seeking purchase where his uniform does not protect him.

"Still the same," Torgal growls out, seeking the leverage he needs.

"You disgust me," Allan snarls. He lunges, teeth bared to bite, and Torgal takes advantage of his poor balance to flip him. He scrabbles for purchase against the floor, claws raking furrows in the carpet, as Torgal bears down on top of him to hold him there. He's cursing, the words slurred in half a dozen tongues. Torgal pins his primary arms, holding tight to his wrists, and almost laughs when Allan's secondary hands do nothing to stop his own from wrenching loose the belt on Allan's trousers.

Allan bucks under him, writhes, but does nothing to stop him from pushing the confining layers of their clothing out of the way. He drops his head forward, baring his nape, and the fur there is still -- still -- marked by the narrow bare lines of scar that Torgal's teeth left there. He never healed them. He kept the reminders. The realization makes Torgal shudder and hiss, makes him suddenly _want_ this.

He holds Allan pinned, his grip hard the way it can never be with mitra, and lets his cock slide unsheathed. Allan's struggles have changed; he's rocking _up_, seeking, and when Torgal takes him, breaching his body's defenses, his claws gouge straight through the carpet to dig into the wooden floor beneath. Nobody since has been quite like this -- the heat, the unbearable tightness, the thick, intoxicating scent of fury. Torgal catches Allan's bared nape between his teeth and Allan yowls, his whole body taut as though this act of violence is an evocation Torgal channels through him.

It takes no longer than it ever has -- this is an attack, not an act of shared luxury. Torgal fights his way to climax, wrests it from Allan's resistance, and from the sharp scent on the air he can tell he's not the only one. In the brief moment of respite afterward, he releases his hold, withdraws far enough to defend himself should he need to. The need has been rare, in the past.

Allan hasn't changed. He pulls himself upright, gingerly, glaring at Torgal with his ears pinned, but he no longer smells like violence. The traces of his blood in Torgal's mouth taste sweet and bright. "You never should have gone," he says.

"We leave for Balterossa at first light," Torgal answers. He will not have this conversation, such as it is, again. "Be sure you are rested."

Allan slams the door when he leaves.


End file.
